Barbarian Tales
Episode 1
Mistress of the Sword
by L'Espion
Chapter
12: Betrayal
For the next year Shailaja
thought that her life was complete.
At the age of just twenty springs she considered Den to be her bondmate,
although she expected that such was probably not the case with him, however,
he quite willingly took her to his bed or bedroll each night and they looked
to no other liaisons. Forgotten
was her exile from her people as she bonded more and more with her
chosen. But this euphoric state
was not to last. She was still
a member of a mercenary band and with it went the dangers of such a
profession.
Everything changed with
Den’s decision to take service with the city state of Uvar, a city typical
of much of Arkana in that it was bent on expanding its influence at the expense
of its neighbours. As usual Den
had explored both sides, seeking the one that best suited the
Ravens. He chose Uvar for a reason
somewhat out of the ordinary; he liked its ruler, Hestia; a most impressive
woman he had hired out to on several previous
occasions. With a hundred gold
Uvars in the Ravens’ treasury and a hundred more promised, Den and his
company set off to violate the city of
Cebar was a city of minor
importance in central Arkana. Only
three days march from Uvar, the company reached it in good time to find the
citizen army of Cebar set up in a strong defensive
position. Two hundred men were
dug in along the main road in a position that would be costly to
force.
Most of Arkana was a vast
fertile plain with few natural features of
importance. However, the poorly
trained militia of the city had managed to find one of the few landmarks
of any significance. The road
to Cebar climbed a long, heavily forested ridge that ran off to the left
as the Ravens approached. It
afforded numerous places to hide and since all of the company was horsed,
its thickly wooded slopes presented a formidable barrier.
The area to the right of
the road was no better. Here
the end of the ridge fell away in a steep, rocky slope that would defeat
any cavalry charge and to make matters worse, the foot of the escarpment
ended in a thickly wooded swamp.
At the top of the hill
Cebar’s militia had constructed a barrier of pointed stakes, set out
in multiple rows that would force any attacker to zigzag through the defences,
making them prime targets for the Cebarian
crossbowmen.
Due to the fact that Den
had fought for both sides at one time or another he had a very good idea
of the nature of Cebar’s forces and the chances of breaking through
the strongpoint that barred the way to their city.
“They have two hundred
to three hundred men at best,” he said, as he and the other senior members
of the Ravens observed the Cebarian
strongpoint. “Probably fifty
to seventy armed with crossbows, and the rest with whatever weapons they
can lay their hands on. Most
are lightly armoured and have little experience of
war. If we can get among them
the fight will be a short one.”
“It’s the
getting-among-them part that will be the most difficult,” Gorvag
observed. “Getting up that
road under crossbow fire will be deadly at best.”
“Then we don’t
go up the road,” Den replied.
“There is another way, although it won’t be
pleasant.”
“The ridge will be
tough,” a woman called Siva stated, “but we might be able to do
it.” Shailaja glanced toward
her and nodded. She was one of
the few other women warriors in Den’s
band. In her mid-thirties, she
had seen a lot of fighting and frequently made good suggestions, but this
time Den shook his head.
“I’ve fought for
Cebar a few years ago. I’m
afraid to say it, but the defence that is now being used against us was one
I devised to defeat the Ilanians.
We forced them to come up that road and cut them to pieces even though
they had five-to-one numbers on their
side. The wooded slope is a death
trap full of snares and pits used to kill any force coming through
it. There is only one way that
gives us a chance and that is the swamp.”
“The swamp?” Gorvag
asked. “Have you ever been through it?”
Den shook his
head. “It’s really
the only way left, unless we want to backtrack and spend a week going around
the ridge.”
“That might be better
in the long run,” Siva said.
“Sometimes slower gets you there
faster.”
“It has to be sooner
than that,” Den declared.
“Cebar has contracted with mercenaries of its
own. It must be defeated before
more professional forces show up.”
“Then the swamp it
is,” Gorvag conceded.
“But we don’t want to commit a large party to that without
scouting it first. I suggest
you send me. I was raised in
the fenlands and know how to get through water.”
“Alright,” Den
agreed, giving Gorvag a direct look.
“But just a half day.
We want to move by tomorrow
morning. Meanwhile we will set
up camp here and keep an eye on the Cebarians.”
“Agreed,” Gorvag
said. “I’ll be back
in the afternoon. I don’t
want to be caught in the swamp in the evening.”
Shailaja watched Gorvag
go. “That’s a little
out of character for our friend don’t you
think?”
Den
shrugged. “Gorvag’s
a good man in a fight. Not as
good as you, but then you’re not a man.”
Shailaja grinned and moved
closer to Den. “That’s
a double compliment. Women are
usually better than men.”
“I’ll concede
that they’re much better at some things,” Den
laughed. “And I’m going
to insist you show me exactly what tonight.”
Gorvag was back by late
afternoon as he had promised. It
was evident that he had spent a good deal of his time in mud and water, but
he had an air of triumph about him.
“There is a way,” he said, easing his bulk down beside the
fire and taking a bowl of stew.
“But it’s not one you want to take the entire force
through. A handpicked few will
make it provided they stick to the trail I’ve
marked.”
“How many do you
suggest,” Den asked.
“Twenty at the most,”
Gorvag answered, taking a bite a bite of
bread. “I’ll be one,
of course. That just leaves another
nineteen.”
“Alright,” Den
agreed. “Here’s what
we’ll do. Tomorrow morning
I’ll lead twenty men through the
swamp. We’ll then lie low
until night and attack the camp just before
“It’s a bit
risky,” Gorvag said, “but I’m for
it.”
“It’s better than
a frontal assault up that road,” Siva
agreed.
“Alright then,”
Den said. “I just have to
find another eighteen men.”
Actually it was
seventeen. Den knew full well
Shailaja went where he went and in such a small party he needed his best
fighters.
It took only a quarter turn
of the glass to make the choice. It
was decided that Siva would be left in the camp to lead the assault up the
hill. Den, Gorvag, and Shailaja,
along with seventeen of Den’s most experienced men would make their
way through the swamp the next day.
They would wear only light armour
and move as quickly as they could through the swamp and then wait until night
to attack. The choices made,
they retired early to their bedrolls in preparation for the next
day.
That night Shailaja and
Den’s lovemaking was the most intense since the first time Den had taken
her. They had been together for
a year now, but this was the most dangerous mission they had taken together
and both knew that in battle anything could
happen. Before retiring Shailaja
lit a sweet beeswax candle and prayed to Marana, the Kaltaran goddess of
war, asking that she bless her warrior one more
time. The fickleness of the Kaltaran
goddess of war was well known and she who had smiled upon a warrior one day
might frown upon her the next.
It was perhaps this knowledge
that made their lovemaking so passionate.
It seemed that Den felt the same way, because when they had lapsed
into sweet exhaustion he held Shailaja close in the dark until she fell asleep,
saying nothing, but reassuring her with the warmth of his body and the tenderness
of his touch.
The next morning they rose
before dawn, ate a quick, cold breakfast, strapped on their weapons, and
followed Gorvag into the swamp.
It was a trackless landscape
consisting of floating grassy islands that sank as soon as they applied any
weight to them, and large trees standing in the water like the columns of
an ancient temple. The sun was
blocked by the trees, and every direction looked the
same. Without Gorvag they would
soon have been lost and Shailaja was quite glad he had chosen to scout the
route.
Every now and then they
came upon a small mark Gorvag had made on the trunk of a
tree. Some of these signalled
that this was the way he had chosen to
go. Others were routes he had
tried and found wanting.
Even with these marks to
help it was not easy going. Several
times Shailaja had to wade through water that came up to her breasts, which
meant it was up to the necks of most of the others, and at no time was the
water less than knee deep. However,
Gorvag’s route kept them out of the quicksands and clinging mud that
would have made moving through the swamp
deadly.
“How much farther?”
Den asked Gorvag after they had been slogging through the swamp for about
two turns of the glass.
They were standing knee
deep in the water looking across the first open area they had encountered
since entering the swamp. On
the far side a screen of trees and thick vegetation gave hope that they might
finally have come to dry land.
“Just across there,”
Gorvag nodded, indicating the screen of
trees. “We will be about
a half turn of the glass from the Cebarian
camp. We can rest in the trees
until nightfall and then make our way there by using their campfires to guide
us to our attack position.”
Everyone found this to be
most pleasing news, and after a brief rest they started across the open
water.
The ambush caught them halfway
across. A sudden flight of quarrels
issued from the screen of trees.
Shailaja felt a sudden intense pain in her leg and found that one
had struck her, passing through the flesh of her inner
thigh. The pain was extreme,
but she found she was still able to
stand. Fearful that she would
bleed more heavily if she pulled it out, she broke off the feathered shaft
and left the head where it was.
Then drawing her swords she plunged across the pool toward the other
side.
Den was with her, having
waited by her side as she dealt with the
quarrel. Slowed, by her painful
injury she hobbled through the knee-deep water, stumbling once as she encountered
a hole that plunged her up to her waist.
Shailaja and Den headed
toward the direction of the hidden crossbowmen, knowing the weakness of the
weapon they carried. The crossbow
was a deadly weapon at ranges up to three hundred yards or even more for
some of the most powerful versions.
But it had one severe weakness compared to a bow, and that was its
very slow reload time. Between
the loosing of one quarrel and the reloading of another could take up to
two hundred heartbeats. Den and
Shailaja, and the others that were still alive, forged toward the crossbowmen
before they fired again.
Of course, the crossbowmen
would not be alone. No competent
war leader would send soldiers armed only with missiles into battle without
other infantry support. Den’s
squad would have to fight its way to them, provided any of his men still
stood when they reached the edge of the water.
In battle the flow of time
changes depending on the circumstances.
It seemed to Shailaja that it took a complete turning of the glass
to wade across the last few yards of open
water. The pain in her thigh
was agonizing, but she put it out of her mind, concentrating on just one
goal, reaching the trees and the enemy that hid among
them.
There was no thought of
running. It would have done them
little good in any case. The
ambush had been staged when they were halfway across the open
water. To attempt to retreat
would have forced them to turn their backs to the enemy and expose them to
following fire or even a sudden sally by the troops supporting the
crossbowmen. Attack was their
only option and it agreed well with Shailaja’s philosophy of
battle.
And then they were among
the trees. In spite of their
exposed position half of the twenty men that had started out with Den were
still standing, and they were the best of Den’s
band. They badly outmatched the
unseasoned militia that opposed them.
However, they were now just ten against over a hundred, and they had
not the advantage of the surprise they had counted upon to offset their inferior
numbers.
The Cebarians fought bravely
if not well, screening the crossbowmen who looked to get a second
shot. Shailaja and Den stood
side by side cutting their way methodically through the enemy
ranks. Robbed of a good deal
of her mobility, Shailaja was not at her best, but her swords sang their
usual song, thrusting, cutting, parrying, and drawing blood at almost every
stroke as she slowly pushed forward.
It was Den who led the way
with his deadly two-handed attack.
He seemed to be
everywhere, darting here and dashing there to take down man after
man. Shailaja, slowed by her
injury, struggled to stay by his side, her dual blades weaving death in front
of her. The enemy began to waver
in spite of its superior numbers.
And then the gods stepped in.
Den stepped forward, catching
on his sword a blow that was meant for Shailaja, and from out of the thick
foliage whirred a crossbow bolt. It
struck Den in the eye, and death must have been
instantaneous. Without a word
he dropped his swords and then followed them to the
ground.
Shailaja stood
stunned. For perhaps five heartbeats
the world seemed to stop. She
felt a wrench inside her chest as if someone had torn her heart away and
she watched Den topple forward, his weapons dropping from his dead
fingers. She was aware of the
noise of battle around her; the shouting of men; the screams of the injured;
the clash of metal on metal; but they seemed distant and
unreal.
She wanted to scream his
name, to rush to his side, to pick him up, but she knew none of that would
help. She had seen too many deaths
on the battlefield, many of them caused by her own hand, not to know that
there was no saving him; that he was already far beyond
saving. And then a red haze seemed
to descend before her eyes. And
with a scream of rage she hurled herself at the enemy.
Among the Kaltara her furious
response was known as blood rage.
It was a berserk reaction that took a warrior in battle and transformed
her into a mindless, frenzied killing
machine. Such a warrior knows
nothing but the urge to kill and kill again, caring not if she is killed
in turn.
Shailaja became that sort
of warrior; hurling herself toward the enemy, ignoring the danger to her
person, and possessed of an overwhelming desire to
kill. Neither fatigue, nor injury,
nor fear deterred her as she sought the enemy, her blades rising and falling
like scythes reaping grain.
She swept the enemy before
her, breaking through the enemy line and then charging back again as she
sought to destroy all who stood before
her. Around her the enemy routed,
fleeing into the forest and back up the hill toward their
camp. Shailaja followed, the
pain of the crossbow bolt in her thigh forgotten, buried beneath the
all-encompassing desire to kill.
What might have happened
had she reached the enemy
Shailaja was struck from
behind with a blow so powerful that it snapped the strings on her helmet
and sent it spinning into the brush.
It should have been a killing blow, but for some reason the warrior
who struck it had used the flat of his
sword. As it was she was driven
to her knees and almost lost her grip on her
swords. Dazed she turned her
head toward her attacker and saw Gorvag’s snarling face just before
he struck the second blow.
Betrayed.
And then that thought perished as Gorvag’s sword descended and
darkness rushed up to claim her.
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